Hic
by WeatherWatch
Summary: There's nothing like a hiccough to ruin the image of composure. Pseudo-prequel to 'Sunday Morning'.


**Ugh; I keep coming back to these two - I really like them together!  
Now, quickly in regard to hiccough/hiccup disparities: it can be spelt either way, with identical pronunciation, though hiccup is undoubtedly more common. I have always known them as hiccoughs so that is how they are written here. Don't berate me for it.**

**This is also a shameless prequel to 'Sunday Morning'. Hur hur.**

* * *

"**Hic-"  
**however much you use me baby, come on use me more  
( _alloway grove_ ; _paolo nutini_ )

* * *

Hermione, sporting a fine film of perspiration that damps the hair at her temple and goes a good way, too, in revealing her recent activities, rolls in mortification into the small fortress of pillows that always manage to find their way onto her side of the bed. Her body convulses sharply, the action accompanied by an obviously involuntary squeak which serves only to encourage her in burrowing deeper.

Wayne, her Welsh paramour and partner in the night's activities, props himself up on one elbow, his cheek resting on his palm as his lips widen into an amused smile. "Do you always get the hiccoughs after sex?" he asks genially.

"No- _hic_-!" she denies, her shoulders jumping. He chuckles and she glares at him, aiming for dignified composure, but the effect is ruined by another ill-timed hiccough. She groans and dives back into the pillows.

"I'm a bit chuffed, to be honest," the large man informs her laughingly. Her red bra stands out like a beacon against the snowy bedding, drawing his gaze. "It's the first time I've caused hiccoughs in a girl." He tweaks the strap closest to him and Hermione squirms predictably.

"It's not funny!" Hermione complains. She hugs the pillow tightly, directing a reproaching sideways glance at her former schoolmate.

"I beg to differ. Do think it's from all that gorgeous gasping you were doing?"

Hermione reddens, but succeeds in retorting, "I think it's –_hic_- more likely to be aftershock from your rather –_hic_- thorough ministrations."

The comment makes him laugh, a rich warm sound that rumbles in his chest.

"Maybe we ought to try and knock 'em back out?" he suggests. He tugs her towards him with ease, kissing her firmly and fumbling with her bra before tossing it from the bed.

Wayne Hopkins has never been a small boy, and as a man he hovers around the six foot three mark, a sporting god of immense proportions. He plays Quidditch locally, making a creditable beater, but rugby is still his primary love. Even Hermione, having now watched him play, can understand why: he comes alive playing the muggle sport, and the joy he gets from a victorious match is almost palpable.

Hermione notes privately that the post-game sex has turned out to be pretty good, too.

She hiccoughs again and Wayne feels the way it distorts her diaphragm, her tummy hollowing out sharply while her breasts are forced violently against his chest. He grins into the kiss and she slaps his shoulder lightly. "Don't –_hic_- laugh!"

He murmurs acquiescence into her skin as he trails a path down her throat to her bared breasts. His large hands roam the contours of her body and Hermione is unable to prevent the murmurs of pleasure from escaping her lips. She writhes against him encouragingly, oblivious to the way her hands tangle in his curly hair, and the way her hiccoughs seem to have faded away.

He worships her body, tormenting her with his teasing progress, and Hermione, her patience finally wearing thin, eventually wrests control from him, directing him onto his back. Her hands clench briefly over his well muscled chest as she lowers herself onto his cock. She savours the sensation for a heartbeat, but desire and instinct persuade her to roll her hips over his, eliciting heady gasps of pleasure from them both; from that moment on they are slaves once more to lust and love and all that falls in between.

Hermione wakes early the next morning, as is her wont, a stubborn remnant of her childhood that lingers even now, though she has tried unsuccessfully many times over the years to readjust her body clock. The brief thought that she is alone in the bed is discredited by the warmth at her back, not to mention the arm draped possessively over her stomach, but the sheer amount of empty bed before her indicates that any sudden movements will probably topple them both onto the floor.

Wayne would, of course, break her fall, she acknowledges fairly, but still, in order to avoid that particular tumble, she shuffles into the centre of the bed. A quiet giggle erupts from her when his brawny frame does the same, reaching for her in the same movement.

Confident that he won't fall off the bed now, Hermione wriggles until she is facing him, one slender hand resting on his naked chest. His curls are skewed from sleep, and his fine eyelashes flicker as the last hints of sleep flee with the break of dawn. The arm that always seems to wrap around her waist tightens when she kisses him, pinning her against his torso, and she has no compunction in admitting that his powerful grip makes her feel safe, protected.

She pulls away once Wayne is fully awake. "Tea?" she asks, slipping from the bed.

"Mmm. Please," he replies through a yawn.

She disappears from the bedroom, leaving him to take the first shower.

He enters the kitchen a little while later, shrugging on a shirt as Hermione pours their tea. "Have they gone?" he asks abruptly. She's donned his old Hufflepuff jersey – which, quite frankly, dwarfs her tiny frame – and he's particularly appreciative of the way it bares both her shoulder and her legs, the rough fabric hanging off her like an ill-fitting dress. "Your hiccoughs, I mean."

"Evidently," she retorts cheekily. "Clearly your theory was entirely justified."

"Of course," he says with false modesty, eyes twinkling. She laughs and hands him a teacup.

It wouldn't take much to get used to this life, Hermione thinks privately. Wayne is comfortable, sturdy, and endlessly endearing (for all he seems a giant beside her) and this lovely breed of quiet warms her through from her bones to her very soul.

She hopes it isn't too presumptuous of her to feel that she deserves this happiness.

* * *

**End.**

**So apparently their relationship revolves around tea. **

**Read and Review responsibly, please and thank you!**


End file.
